


Notre Petite Bibliotheque

by twilightshadow



Series: Writing Prompts and Other Shenanigans [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Because of Reasons, Fluffy I guess, Gen, M/M, NSFW, Oral Sex, Smut, Train Rides, Writer!Grantaire, bestsellers, i am an accidental literature snob, oblivious!enjolras, rule 63 joly, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:10:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightshadow/pseuds/twilightshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this post: http://klainewinchesters.tumblr.com/post/72700825310 :cropped up on tumblr from klainewinchesters and I decided it needed to be a thing. </p><p>Or, in which Enjolras has a secret habit, Grantaire doesn't care about your opinion and the Parisian Metro plays a major matchmaking role</p><p>Please do enjoy, despite the literature snobbery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The trouble with being a junior reporter at a medium range newspaper is less the shitty pay and more the awkward hours. It’s 8am and Enjolras is almost late as he swallows the last of his morning coffee and tracks his keys down to the pocket of yesterday’s jacket.

“You could at least be a bit quieter about leaving in the morning,” grumbles his flatmate Combeferre. Going by the dark circles under his eyes it was another difficult night shift at his hospital.

“That’s the problem with your night shifts,” Enjolras replies. “You get in as I get out. Hardly my fault.”

“It is your fault, however, for being loud. Just leave.”

Enjolras smiles fondly at his best friend, hunched over a half-eaten shop-bought sandwich at the kitchen table. ‘Ferre has never been good morning person.

The blonde shrugs into his jacket and grabs his messenger bag. “Get some sleep, for fuck’s sake. Takeout tonight?”

“You are a god. See you later.”

\---

The Métro is its usual rush-hour crowded self. Enjolras just about snags a seat next to a man fast asleep against the window, his beanie falling down over his face. He idly notes the two-day stubble and uncontrollable curls escaping the green fabric as he settles himself with his latest bestseller.

Enjolras had had a reputation in college and again at university for being _that library nerd_ ; he existed on caffeine, knew all the librarians by name, quoted highbrow philosophers and spoke of freedom and justice like other people spoke of the weather. Only his three closest friends; Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Feuilly; knew of his other literary tastes – the flavour of the month atop the newspaper bestseller list.

He didn’t quite know what it was. The fast-action plots, the character’s emotions, the world building that allowed him to step outside his fast moving brain for an hour or two, stop thinking and simply enjoy reading. He had often found in college that they were a refreshing break after hours spent reading about 19th century politics and current social injustices. He never went without one in his bag.

Lately he’d found himself drawn towards one particular author known only as R.

Enjolras had come across him several months ago via Matelote - the book review columnist at his paper - who simply _would not stop talking about them._ After a couple of weeks his curiosity got the better of him.

He’d found quickly that there was something about the person’s writing style that drew him in in a way that no book previously had managed. He’d devoured the first book in less than a day, unable to put it down. After that it was a slippery slope.

Courfeyrac accused him of being in love with a book. Enjolras retorted that he was dating a poet and therefore had no right to comment.

Currently he is halfway through R’s latest work for the second time, a suspenseful thriller set in the 19th century. He pulls out his bookmark and sets himself to leaving reality for the fifteen minutes or so it takes to reach his station.

Except today he is jolted out of his fantasy world by a low snort from the man sitting on his right.

“Jesus, I didn’t think people actually read that shit.”

Enjolras looks up and glowers at the window sleeper, who apparently has woken up. His curls are flattened on one side of his head and his blue eyes are sparkling at him despite his bloodshot whites.

Enjolras feels a flash of annoyance run through him, but, “It’s not shit,” is all he can think of to say.

The man snorts with amusement through his nose. “Please. The characters are tropes, the plotline’s got more continuity issues than a crappy American serial and don’t even get me started on the writing style.”

For a second Enjolras is so surprised at the total stranger attacking his literary tastes that he can’t think of a word to say. Then the surprise is overtaken by anger. “Ever read it, or are you just going by the fact it’s a mainstream bestseller?”

“I have read it actually. Don’t know how it’s a bestseller. I mean, you can literally pinpoint who’s going who’s going to die next, the plot’s that predictable. And the whole part when he shoots the police detective rather than letting him go? That’s not character development, that’s completely disregarding everything that’s happened up to that point.”

“That’s unfair. The man had been chasing him his whole life. Tell me you wouldn’t have jumped at the chance for some peace as well. And you follow his remorse for the rest of the story. That’s the character development. And as for the predictable plot, it’s more about the characters than what happens to them, surely?”

An evil grin spreads across the other man’s face. “Oh, sure. The token love interest who marries another bloke, the obsessed detective and the ex-con trope, the equally token ‘strong female’ street girl…every single one is predictable and dull. Tell me, oh connoisseur of literature, how am I supposed to give a damn about any of them?”

“They’re accessible. They could be anyone. They could be you and me, they could be the man standing over there reading the paper…”

“Exactly. They’re cardboard cutouts. No originality whatsoever.”

Enjolras’ blood is well and truly up now. “That’s not fair,” he says again.

“You’re repeating yourself now. That means you know I’m right.”

“Are you one of those people who think they could do better than the author, then?”

“Oh shit, no. I have no such delusions. I just know good books when I read them.” The man leans back, the picture of insolence. “The guy knows he’s crap anyway.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“He’s hiding behind a penname. If he was honestly proud of what he’d written, he wouldn’t just sign himself with a letter.”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

The blue-eyed man smiles again. “Women use different tropes.”

“Okay, one, that’s incredibly sexist, and two, maybe he – she – they - just prefer their privacy.”

“Women also write much better sex scenes.”

Enjolras almost chokes on his own spit.

The trains announces Enjolras’ stop as next. With a certain rising feeling of relief, he gathers his things, sticks the offending book back into his backpack and gets up to leave.

“You still know I’m right,” says the other man.

“I’m done discussing this.”

The dark haired man just smiles.

“I’m Grantaire, by the way,” he calls after the blonde as he all but jumps off the train. He doesn’t respond. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire will not leave well alone.

To Enjolras’ relief, the man is not there on the way home, and neither is he there the next morning. It’s a relief to settle back into his habit, to lose himself without dark haired men with nice eyes interrupting…(and when did you notice his eyes were nice, Enj?).

He finishes R’s book within a couple of days and moves onto another author, not one he likes as much as R, but one of his long time favourites. This one is a straight-up romance with all the trimmings, not something Enjolras is particularly fond of in the real world, but something about this reminds him of Marius Pontmercy, one of Courfeyrac’s colleagues, and his girlfriend Cosette. Mostly because their perfection is mildly sickening. In a good way (most of the time).

The Métro rattles along. The atmosphere is laced with early morning fatigue. The person standing by Enjolras’ head has his music up too loudly, but the blonde barely notices.

Until a solid form _flops_ down next to him. “Wouldn’t have picked you for the romantic type.”

“I’m not,” replies Enjolras absently. Then he comes back to full awareness and his head jerks up to see the window sleeper – Grantaire – observing him with a sly grin.

Irritatingly, Enjolras can’t tell whether his heart sinks or flips. His antipathy towards the man deepens a little.

“Oh. You again. No chance you’re going to leave me in peace this time around is there?”

“Not a one, Apollo. So, if you’re not the romantic type, you’ll agree with me that this one is completely outside the realms of normality and the male lead may as well have ‘walkover’ written across his forehead.”

“There’s nothing wrong about being in touch with your emotions.”

“Never said there was, but there’s a difference between being in touch with them and letting them drive you to complete stupidity. Which is why the plotline is so ridiculous. That kind of sappiness would never survive a real-life relationship.”

“How do you know?”

Grantaire raises one eyebrow. “Well…someone’s never had any romantic experience before, have they?”

“You don’t even know me, you don’t reserve the right to comment on my experience, or lack thereof.” Enjolras can’t help feeling this man would get on scarily well with Courfeyrac.

Grantaire chuckles. “Fair enough. Apollo, just trust me, real life does not work like that.”

“I prefer to believe in love, and in people.”

The other man rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“You’re an idealist.”

“And you aren’t?”

“I prefer to think of myself as a cynical realist.”

“With a personal vendetta against mainstream bestsellers.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Like I said, I know good literature. That sort of thing is written for the audience, not for the writer. It’s accessible because so many people don’t want to use their brains, it’s crap because most people don’t know the difference, and they sell because the papers tell the public they’re good.”

“Maybe that’s why so many people buy them? They lead busy lives, they want something to help them switch off for a while. Most people don’t get the time to read that they’d like as it is, let them read something.”

“There’s a difference between encouraging reading and encouraging people to fill their heads with bullshit. If the end goal is to get them to read something, at least write something half-decent.”

“But you said that people don’t want to use their brains.”

Grantaire smiles. “Paradoxical, isn’t it?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I believe people are more than just mindless sheep.”

“Read it again. The male lead is a mindless sheep and the female is another token. Man-pain and Mary Sues do not make quality literature.”

The train slows and Enjolras realises that once again, they are nearing his stop. He begins to gather his things.

“There’s more to life than cynicism, you know,” he says.

“And there’s more to books than shitty bestsellers.”

“I know. It’s…a personal preference.”

“Any reason why?”

Enjolras turns on him. “You don’t know me, and you’re pushing the borders of nosy. You’re being extremely disrespectful to something that I receive genuine enjoyment from and I don’t think I owe you one single fucking explanation.”

He is incensed when the smile refuses to drop from Grantaire’s face. “So, same time next week then?”

Enjolras absolutely does not storm away in a childish huff, except he really does. He kicks himself all the way to the office.

He eats lunch at his desk so he can put his feet up for a while and read while most of his colleagues take advantage of the mild weather to catch lunch elsewhere. He pulls his bookmark out and tries to settle into his novel.

Tries.

He attempts to convince himself that the reason Grantaire’s words are echoing in his head are because the man is the most annoying _bastard_ he’s ever had the misfortune to come across and he hopes he will die in a hole somewhere, except he really doesn’t because he’s starting to admit that the man may have a point. This morning, Martin’s plight had aroused some sympathy in him. Now he just wants him to get off his arse and DO something rather than simply sitting and feeling sorry for himself.

Enjolras snaps the book shut, frustrated. _Damn amateur lit crits, think they know everything._ He turns back to the article he’s proof-reading for somebody else and tries to stop the words from swimming in front of his eyes.

\---

He does not miss Grantaire on the way home. Not at all.

He promises himself retribution next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a complete literature snob, can you tell? Oh well. 
> 
> PS. YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING. This things has been up for less than a day and the response has been epic, thank you =D
> 
> It will interest you to know that I've written most of this already. The wait will not be much, methinks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rights Of Man (and Cynic) are discussed. Courfeyrac smells a rat.

Grantaire doesn’t show up on the Métro again for a few days, during which Enjolras takes the time to think about the next book he wants Grantaire to rip through. He eventually picks another R because it feels appropriate.

Combeferre notices him browsing his bookshelf, deep in thought.

“Haven’t bought anything new yet?”

“Thought I’d revisit some old favourites,” Enjolras replies vaguely. ( _The Guardsman_ had been a good one….but he’d enjoyed _Fields of Waterloo_ more…)

Combeferre nods. Feuilly, however, pokes his head around the corner from the kitchen.

“Nice to know you’re no longer the type who reads ‘em and leaves ‘em.”

“Was I ever?”

“You were once. I distinctly remember you giving away or selling a load of them when you moved out of University halls, and again when you moved in here once we’d graduated.”

“They build up!” Enjolras protests.

“What builds up?” asks Courfeyrac, returning from the bathroom.

“Books do.”

“Oh, no shit. You own enough of them. Why are you repeating them anyway? You almost never read anything twice, Mr Super-Memory.”

 “Unless he’s reading R,” Feuilly reminds him.

Courfeyrac cackles. “Oh yes, the beautiful love story between Enjolras and a book collection.”

Enjolras flushes. “Shut up.”

“You know his new book comes out in a month or so?” says Combeferre.

Enjolras doesn’t. He’s been too caught up at work. “It is?”

“It is. End of June. Didn’t catch the title.”

“Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for it.” Enjolras picks _Fields of Waterloo_ in the end.

When he retreats to his room Courfeyrac turns to the others.

“Anyone else think there was something off about that whole exchange?”

Two nods of assent.

\---

 As luck would have it, Grantaire is on his train the next day. Enjolras can’t sit next to him, so he sits opposite him.

“Ah, Apollo! Olympus rains favours on me this morning.”

Enjolras notices dark circles under his eyes. Late night out then.

He doesn’t comment. He pulls R’s novel out of his backpack and holds it up. “Amateur review. Five words or less.”

Grantaire’s faces registers pure surprise, but only for a split second before his face widens into a huge grin. “Cliché from start to end.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Grantaire leans forward. “Well, where would like me to start?”

\---

The fourth time Enjolras sees Grantaire, it’s any other Monday morning and the dark-haired man is holding a book of his own.

“What’s the book?”

“Actual literature for a start.” Grantaire marks his place with his finger . Enjolras notes the title.

“’ _The Rights of Man’_? I thought you were a cynic.”

“I am. It’s both ironic and self-affirming. Could do with some of that today.”

Enjolras never thinks to ask why.

“I take it you’ve read it,” Grantaire continues.

“Of course I have. It was something I really enjoyed in university.”

“Hardly surprising, Mr Idealist.”

Enjolras has a sudden flash of Courfeyrac a few days ago. “Enjolras.”

“ _Qui_?”

“My name is Enjolras. Not Mr Idealist, or Apollo.”

“But Apollo suits you so well. Apollo the Shining.”

“One; I’m not a god, I’m a journalist. Two; we’re sitting in a train car, nobody shines in a train car unless it’s with sweat.” Enjolras wills his mouth to shut. Thankfully it does.

Grantaire just raises an eyebrow. “But back to The Rights of Man.”

Enjolras accepts the change of course.

Of course, Grantaire has a negative opinion of this as well, despite it being “actually well written, unlike your usual shit.” But it is territory that Enjolras is used to navigating and the fifteen minutes pass in a flash.

This is starting to become a pattern with Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now finished writing this. But it's not all going up at once, because I am evil like that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras gets a fright, in more ways than one.

By the sixth time, Enjolras and Grantaire have stopped thinking about finding a seat next to one another on the train and asking about what they’re reading that week. It’s automatic.

They rip apart whatever bestseller Enjolras has picked up this week. They debate Rousseau and Saint Just. It’s the most fun Enjolras had ever had on his morning commute.

Up to now he’d thought his idea of fun on the train was his latest paperback. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more wrong. Grantaire is twisting his perspective on the world. It’s not as unwelcome as he thought it would be.

He’s not said a word. He assumes he doesn’t need to.

_“I don’t think you’re right about his intentions here. It doesn’t have to be about the expectation of future favours, he could just be…”_

_“Honestly Apollo, have you not been paying attention. Does he seem like the sort of chap who would do a thing like that?”_

_“He’s not written like he would.”_

_“That’s just bad writing. Look at his actions, not the adjectives used to describe him…”_

And so on.

The annoying nickname has stuck, unfortunately.

\---

He hasn’t told any of his friends. As far as he can tell Combeferre still thinks he rushes out of the door because he’s always slightly late in the morning. He thinks Courfeyrac might have noticed a little more, but Courfeyrac doesn’t do regular night shifts. As for Feuilly, he’s just taken on a bunch of new shifts, so he’s hardly around anymore. Their Saturday nights at the Musain feel a little lonely without him. Maybe because nobody’s used to seeing Bahorel sitting by himself, devoid of his red-headed best friend.

Enjolras finds himself wondering into his cup of coffee, while the chatter echoes around him, if Grantaire would enjoy these gatherings. He has a flair for debate, that’s certain. He has a feeling Jehan would love him.

For some reason he doesn’t like this idea. He doesn’t know quite when Grantaire and their little private debate club became _his_ in his mind, but apparently it has.

Possibly this is when he should have twigged that it was _something else_ , but he doesn’t.

\---

This week they’re discussing Michel Montaigne’s _Essays_ and are for once, in perfect agreement, though Grantaire still insists on putting a cynical spin on things.

“Are you taking the opposing view because you honestly think that or because you just like arguing with me?” Enjolras asks.

“Can’t I do both?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras suddenly realises how far forward across the gap between their seats they are leaning, and how easy it would be to close the gap.

He has to blink several times. (Where did that come from?)

Grantaire is looking at him quizzically. “What is it?”

Enjolras shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. What were we saying?”

“Am I just arguing with you for the sake of it, or because it’s my honest opinion?”

“Oh, yeah…”

“And I said it’s a bit of both.”

“Right…”

“You sure you’re okay? You look a bit spaced.”

“It’s fine. Oh, this is me.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras stands and slings his backpack across his back. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, yeah?”

For a moment Grantaire almost looks sad. “Yeah, I guess. See you Apollo.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at the nickname (that he’s sort of stopped minding) and steps off onto the platform.

\---

He waits for the rest of the week, but Grantaire doesn’t appear.

And all the next.

Enjolras pretends it doesn’t bother him, but Grantaire _never_ shows up less than three times in a week.

If his eyes keep glancing up from the page at every station and scanning the people getting on and off, he tells himself he’s giving his eyes a rest from the page.

Finally, two weeks and three days later Grantaire _flumps_ into the seat next to him. “ _Bonjour_ , Enjolras. So, what is it this week?”

Enjolras almost jumps out of his skin.

Or maybe it’s his heart that almost jumps right out of his chest.

(Oh. Well. Shit.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Enj. You so oblivious.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre is an actual saint.

He’s not sure what to do with this, so like anybody with a first crush, he goes to his best friend.

Combeferre is awake for once, sat on the couch doing some paperwork.

“Hey, ‘Ferre…can I talk to you for a minute?”

Combeferre looks up. “Sure.” He puts his papers aside. “What’s up?”

Enjolras flops down against the couch cushions and tries to find the right words. A small voice in the back of his head tell him that he’s 25 and therefore a bit past feeling so conflicted over this sort of thing.

“Thing is,” he begins, slowly. “I think I might be…I think I might have developed feelings for…someone. Nobody you know. It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

Combeferre is a reincarnated saint.

Enjolras tells the whole story from start to end. The bestsellers book club on the Métro every morning. The reason he was re-visiting all his old favourites and dusting off the old philosophy books he never has the time or brainpower for any more and rushing out of the house extra early in the morning…

“…so, in a nutshell, I think I’m fucked,” he finishes.

Combeferre stays quiet for a moment.

“How do you think he feels?” he asks eventually.

Enjolras groans. “I don’t know! He gets a sadistic pleasure from ripping my points and my favourite books to shreds but I don’t think he actively hates me or he wouldn’t keep recommending me better fiction. Or sitting next to me on metro carriages. Or calling me Apollo…”

“Apollo?”

“Apparently I shine.”

Combeferre chuckles.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing at you. That’s a very promising statement.”

“How so? I’m not a god. He’s probably just using it to make fun of my looks.”

“Feuilly does always say you look like a Greek statue come to life.”

“Just this once, Feuilly can get fucked.”

They fall silent for a moment or two.

“Enjolras, you’re sulking.”

“I am not.”

“You are, you’ve got your sulk face on. I haven’t seen that since lycée when the administration refused to let Les Amis protest on campus.”

“It was for really a stupid reason.”

“Maybe so, but back to – Grantaire, did you say his name was?”

Enjolras nods. “I’m so screwed, ‘Ferre. I don’t have the time for romance, and certainly not the mindset.”

“It’s not about mindset, it’s about compatibility with the other person. Everyone’s got people that they do and don’t get on with, but being in a relationship is about gelling together on a number of levels. It could be film taste, longs walks on the beach, handcuffs…” Enjolras chuckles .“…or maybe the love of a decent debate.”

“If that’s all it takes why aren’t you and me an item?”

Combeferre laughs aloud. “Because I simply don’t see you in that way. Relationships are very intense – just ask Jehan and Courfeyrac – and you and I don’t have that kind of connection.”

“That makes no sense.”

“One of these days it will, young Padwan – ouch!” he cries sharply as Enjolras throws a cushion at him. “But seriously. Take him for coffee. Take him for a walk. Ask for his number, I don’t suppose that crossed your mind.”

Enjolras flushes. (Oops.) “What if he says no, though?”

“Then he says no. It’s not the end of everything. And rejection is better than limbo, trust me.”

Enjolras remembers Combeferre’s disaster of a secondary school crush on Jehan. “I guess so. So, you think I should take the plunge?”

“You have very little to lose and everything to gain.”

Enjolras smiles. “Okay then, if it’s that simple, when are you going to ask out Eponine?”

It’s Combeferre’s turn to flush. “ _Tais-toi._ ”

“Make me.”

“If you insist.”

That means tickles. Enjolras flees the room.

\---

He means to ask Grantaire the next day, except the man isn’t there again. He should be. It’s a Monday, he’s always there on Mondays. Except he isn’t.

He turns up on Thursday, however, looking as though he hasn’t slept.

“Rough night?” Enjolras asks.

“Something like that,” Grantaire replies vaguely. “Look, do you mind if I catch some shut-eye this morning? Forgot my usual coffee.”

“Um…sure, that’s fine.”

He’s not sure how successful he is at keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

Grantaire shoots him a grateful smile and closes his eyes. Within minutes he’s fast asleep against the window.

He sleeps in the exact position he’d been in the first time Enjolras sat down next to him; beanie falling over his face, unruly curls flattened against the window. He looks peaceful.

Enjolras’ heart aches a little. He wonders if that’s normal for people with crushes.

He wants to smooth away the errant curl that drifts over Grantaire’s forehead. He wants that head to rest on his shoulder or his lap while it sleeps, not against a cold, hard window. He wants permission to place a kiss on Grantaire’s stubble-rough cheek.

It occurs to him that he’s in over his head.

Grantaire hasn’t woken up by the time the train reaches his stop, but Enjolras wonders if he would even have had the courage to ask. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Combeferre, can anyone tell?
> 
> I also love Epiferre, because of reasons. Shush.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras finally gets it.

Grantaire doesn’t show up again after that for another week. And the week after that. And the week after that.

Combeferre mentions that R’s new book has been released. Matelote mentions it too (though maybe _squeals it in a high pitched voice_ is a better way of putting it). Enjolras sees it advertised in the big chain of stationers around the corner from the office. It’s got an eye catching cover, a picture of a man holding a flag and standing atop a hill, his back to the viewer, watching the sunrise before him. The title is _Take Your Chance._

Enjolras would have been tempted a month ago. More than tempted. But he hasn’t seen Grantaire in three weeks and he doesn’t want to read it before he knows he’ll see the dark-haired man again, before he knows that they’ll have a chance to sit down and discuss it, preferably over coffee on his day off, when they have all the time in the world.

He wanders along towards the Métro with his hands in his trouser pockets, brooding. It’s summertime and the pathways of Paris are bursting with green and dappling the pavement like something out of a painting, but he can’t feel it like he should. Enjolras loves Paris. He’s lived here most of his adult life, has felt in tune with its beating heart since the first moment he set foot on its streets, first as a young boy, then a young man starting on his own two feet. Paris has been good to him. It’s given him a job, a purpose and friends he wouldn’t exchange for all the world.

It’s given him Grantaire.

Though he’s never walked these streets with the cynical man, he knows instinctively they would feel better with him there.

For the first time Enjolras realises he’s genuinely frightened that he’ll never see Grantaire again.

___

“Read the new R yet?” asks Courfeyrac slyly one Saturday at the Musain.

“Not yet,” says Enjolras absently, lost in the slow motion of the spoon twisting around his in coffee cup.

Joly raises her head from where she’s discussing the latest issue of her favourite medical journal with Bossuet. “Oh, I have. It’s very good, for the genre it’s in.”

“One of my clients is obsessed with them,” says Eponine.

“I keep seeing the posters for it,” says Bahorel. “Didn’t realise you were a fan, Enj.”

“It’s a personal thing,” says Enjolras quietly. “They let me switch off for a while.”

The room goes quiet.

“How long have you been sitting on that little nugget of information?” asks Cosette.

“A few years.”

“Wow,” says Jehan.

“Wouldn’t have expected that from the man who can quote Nietzsche from memory,” remarks Eponine.

“Well…” Enjolras doesn’t quite know why it’s all coming out now, but he feels comfortable with it in a way that he wouldn’t have three months ago. He wonders if this is Grantaire’s influence.

“Well, you will love the new R, then,” says Joly. “It’s about this guy who’s trying to change things in the world for the better, and the antagonist is also the love interest. It’s really interesting. Same style, something new.”

“You’re a closet R fan as well then, Jol?” asks Marius.

“ _Pah._ It’s good stuff.”

“Sounds right up your street, ‘jolras,” Feuilly remarks casually.

Enjolras makes a non-committal noise.

The gathering picks up again slowly. Enjolras doesn’t notice Eponine watching him with a thoughtful expression on her face. He doesn’t even register he presence until she takes the seat next to him.

“Tell you what, borrow this copy. Get lent it by a friend of mine.”

He turns to her. “I wouldn’t have thought it was your cup of tea.”

“It’s not, hence I’m lending it to you. I’m certainly not going to read it.”

He looks at the title, at the eye catching cover. It still doesn’t feel right, but something makes him pick up the book and flip through the first few pages.

His heart almost stops when he reaches the dedication.

 

_For Enjolras, my Apollo_

_who brought some sun into a shadowed life._

 

He doesn’t even register getting up and leaving. He needs to find Grantaire. Now.

And punch him in the mouth. Preferably with his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets have a slow clap for Enjolras, he finally figured out human emotion. 
> 
> (I love him, honest.) 
> 
> Fairly short but what the hey. The good stuff gets here tomorrow. To smut or not to smut - that is the question.
> 
> Also Eponine is the best. Just sayin'...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire talk, though not very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, smut. Never say I'm not nice to you.

In the next seat, Combeferre is startled a little by Enjolras’ sudden departure. He reaches for the book, abandoned on the table.

He reads the dedication.

“Holy shit.” He stares across Enjolras’ vacated seat at Eponine. She looks back at him guilessly.

Combeferre can put two and two together.

“You knew,” he says.

“R – Grantaire – has been pining over him for months. Reckoned I’d take a chance. I stuck his address in his pocket when he wasn’t looking as well.”

Combeferre feels something take root in his chest. Something very warm. It gives him the courage he’s been looking for for the last two months.

“Do you want to get coffee with me sometime?”

Eponine regards him neutrally for a few moments. Then she smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

\---

Enjolras doesn’t even bother wondering how Grantaire’s address got into his pocket; Eponine has a long-standing criminal past. He simply jumps onto the right Métro line. He’s never been so glad to see an underground train in his life.

The familiar clack of the rails has changed from background noise to the soundtrack to his anticipation. Every clack brings him closer.

He finds the capacity to think, just for a minute, how ironic it is that it was the Métro that brought them together the first time. He wonders if it might be the exact same train.

Grantaire’s voice floats into his mind. ( Wouldn't have picked you as the romantic type.”)

It makes him laugh. He gets some funny looks from his fellow passengers. They mean nothing to him, counting down the stations.

He takes the steps out of Grantaire’s station two at a time and from there it’s three streets (and two obliging passers-by) to Grantaire’s apartment.

It’s in a nice building, all glass fronts and modern lines. Enjolras hardly notices.

He slips in past an elderly man on his way out, calling a cheery “ _Bonsoir!”_ as he passes.

(Flat 18, floor 3, flat 18, floor three…)

He knocks. Once, twice. Thrice.

“Holy shit, I’m coming, give me one fucking…”

The door opens.

“…moment.”

Grantaire freezes in the doorway. “Enjolras?”

Enjolras can’t think of a damn thing to say.

“What are you…oh. Fuck. I knew that dedication was a terrible idea. Look, I’m sorry, I just…shit. What do I say?”

Enjolras finally finds his voice.

“Nothing.” And before he loses his nerve he surges forward and kisses him.

Because Grantaire’s not expecting it, they meet in a smush of lips and teeth and knocked noses, and Enjolras freezes for half a second because he thinks he’s misread the whole situation, but then Grantaire makes a weak noise against his mouth and his arms lock around Enjolras’ back and his mouth opens slightly and _oh yeah, that’s better._

Somehow they’re inside and Grantaire is groping to shut the door behind them so he can press Enjolras up against it and carry on kissing each other like they’ll die if they don’t.

Although eventually, annoyingly, they have to come up for real air.

“How long?” Enjolras asks.

“Oh, the first day I met you. Dare I ask the question in return?”

“About a month? Shit, I wasn’t timing it.”

“Fuck.” Grantaire pushes hair away from Enjolras’ forehead. “We’ve both been fucking blind idiots haven’t we?”

“I still can’t believe you had the gall to sit there ripping apart your own work for months in front of me without saying anything.”

“As I said, it’s all my honest opinion. I don’t have to think a lot of what I write, but it pays the bills.”

“We can have the argument some other time. I believe your face needs to be a lot closer to mine right now.”

Grantaire beams and complies.

\---

“Go on then,” says Enjolras, coming up for air, much later. He lies sprawled across Grantaire’s sofa, his hair all a mess and his shirt askew from what started as a simple kiss and became a heated make-out session. Grantaire rolls off him and lies on his side, facing him.  

“What?”

“Why do you write what you hate?”

Grantaire pauses for a second.

“I made a bet with an old…let’s call him an acquaintance. He was in my creative writing class at college. He was a bit of a literature snob. Very into his obscure authors and highbrow lit-crit and all that jazz.”

Enjolras lets out a snort. “I hate those people.”

Grantaire’s chuckle rumbles through him. “Me too. Anyway, I made a bet with him. He said it takes true talent to write a good bestseller. I said any idiot can write a book and have it sell. He told me to put my money where my mouth was. So I did.”

Enjolras sits up and props himself on one elbow. “Hold on – you published a book to prove someone you didn’t even like wrong?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Took me a good year and a half, but I managed. Wrote the whole thing, start to finish, in a fortnight. Bullshat half of it and didn’t bother proofreading. Most people rejected it outright but one guy – name of Valjean – said he thought it had promise and wanted to sign me on. Have you read it?”

“ _Out of Darkness_ , wasn’t it? The one about the bishop?”

“Based off someone I used to know.”

“No shit?!”

“No shit. And from there it kind of snowballed. I have a degree in Art and Literature. The only place I was going on that was into teaching and nobody wants to put me in charge of kids. This seemed like the better option.”

Enjolras furrows his brow in confusion. “But you hate it.”

“It pays the bills, like I said. And if the paychecks are anything to go by I’m good at it. They’re not all I write, you know. I self-publish the…well, I say better stuff, it’s more thought out. I’ll send you a link if you like.”

“But…” Enjolras is at a loss. “Why not publish what you like?”

“I said it was better, not that I liked it. You should know, Mr Journalist.” Grantaire flips them smoothly, laying Enjolras back against the cushions, his blonde curls splayed out like a halo. “A writer is his – or her – own harshest critic. Also over-the-top writing, that uses lots of exciting adjectives, sells much better than philosophising.”

Enjolras pokes him in the ribs. “Mean.”

Grantaire responds by pressing his lips to Enjolras’, who responds in kind. “I’d be very careful about what you say when in a compromising position like this,” he says in a low voice.

Enjolras’ cock gives an interested twitch. He pulls back. “Oh? And why is that?”

Grantaire responds with a hip roll. Enjolras gasps; his cock is definitely interested now.

“I’d hate to have to punish you.”

His tone suggests the precise opposite. It sends a spike of arousal straight through Enjolras’ abdomen. “Is that a promise?”

Grantaire has begun trailing wet, biting kisses down Enjolras’ neck. “I published a book to prove a point, you can damn well bet it’s a promise.”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Enjolras gasps as his teeth sink into that spot he’d discovered earlier just above his collarbone that sends amazing frissions down his spine and makes his cock hard…well, hard _er_. His jeans are definitely too tight now.

“Okay?” asks Grantaire.

“ _Dieu,_ yes...” Enjolras gasps raggedly as Grantaire works That Spot with his tongue.  His own hardness is evident against the blonde’s thigh.

“You know, I wanted to suck you off earlier,” hums the other man from somewhere around his clavicle. “Never got the chance, what with you being so keen.” A hand trails down his stomach and brushes lightly over the bulge in Enjolras’ jeans. “ _Permets-tu_?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, don’t asks such bloody stupid questions, yes, oh God yes, suck me off.”

Grantaire smiles wickedly and slips down Enjolras’ body. He vanishes out of his direct line of sight, but although Enjolras can no longer see him, he can _feel_ him. He can feel a tongue, teasing at his zipper, mouthing at him through the denim. A sharp sound, a sudden loosening around his erection and the sudden sharp touch of the air in the sitting room as his jeans and underwear are pulled down. Enjolras instinctively lifts his hips to help them along.

“Good boy,” Grantaire murmurs from his crotch area. Enjolras glances down at the head of dark hair currently nosing into the crease of his thigh, breath ghosting across his balls, pressing his mouth to his thighs and hipbones…everywhere except where he really wants them.

“ _Viens m’enculer, s’il vous plait,_ Grantaire…put your mouth on me…” Enjolras gasps.

“Patience is a virtue. I have a plan for you.”

“Is driving me mad…part of the plan?”

“Something like that.” He pushes his nose into the thatch of honey-blonde hair at the base of Enjolras’ cock. Enjolras thinks he might explode with frustration when finally – _finally_   - Grantaire begins trailing wet kisses up his shaft. His tongue teases at the slit and swirls around the head for a moment or two, drawing a keening sound from the blonde, before his head bobs and he fucking swallows him, and _Jesus Christ…_ Enjolras moans, a long, drawn out sound that trails off into a choked-off sob.

The air is filled with obscene wet sucking sounds as Grantaire gets to work between his legs. Enjolras has to tear his eyes from the obscene sight of his cock entering and leaving Grantaire’s mouth. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling – he knows that any eye contact with Grantaire now will bring proceedings to a very abrupt end.

“Fucking…shit, holy shit…” he gasps when Grantaire does Something with his tongue and it’s all he can do to stop his hips from jerking skyward. “Oh my God, R, don’t stop, please…”

Grantaire hums around his dick (and _holy fuck_ that feels good). “You taste so good,” he says, removing his mouth for a second.

Enjolras is wound tighter than a spring.

“Holy…shit, Grantaire, keep going, I’m so close.”

“Mmm…” Grantaire goes back down, swallowing him to the root and sucking.

“Oh Christ…Gran-” That’s all Enjolras has time for before he arches up and tips headlong over the edge, coming in thick spurts down the brunet’s throat.

\---

Enjolras flops back, boneless. Grantaire raises his head. There’s a drop of cum dripping down his throat. If Enjolras hadn’t been wrung out, he might have found it hot. He just about manages to respond when Grantaire’s mouth covers his own once again in a soft, chaste kiss.

Grantaire lets out a long breath. “Well then.”

Enjolras swallows a chuckle. Then a thought occurs to him. “Do you need…?”

“Ah, yeah. Kind of took care of that already.”

Enjolras raises his head enough to look down. Grantaire’s jeans are undone and there is a large stain on the front of his boxers.

“Okay then.”

“Indeed.”

Grantaire buries his face in the hair at the base of Enjolras’ neck, behind his ear, trying to calm his breathing a little. “Been a while since I creamed my boxers like that.”

“Shit, really?” Enjolras’ arms come up to wrap around his back, writing little patterns along his back.

“Really. You make some hot noises. Although - ” He sits up to look Enjolras in the face. “If you ever call me R in bed again, I will skin you.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “I did?”

“Yes.”

He flushes. “Sorry.”

Grantaire puts his head back down. “You will be.”

Enjolras holds him tighter. He’s already looking forward to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say that I wrote that blowjob at midnight when I couldn't see straight. If it's crap, that's probably why.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets the Amis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This decided it needed to be written. 
> 
> I regret nothing. I think.

_Three weeks later_

“I feel duty bound to give you fair warning – in this group, Combeferre and I are the sane ones.”

“ _Cher,_ I’m a cynic being willingly dragged by my activist boyfriend to meet his activist friends. I think we’ll get along just fine. Anyway, I’m dying to meet the infamous Courfeyrac.”

There’s just enough discrepancy in that statement to make Enjolras believe him.

Grantaire is a man of contradictions that somehow just _work_. A cynic who loves with all his heart, a writer with the soul of a poet, who acts the fool yet has read widely and very well. A puzzle that Enjolras will happily spend the rest of his days solving.

So, understandably, the prospect of introducing him to his tight knit and definitely not normal group of friends is a daunting one to say the least.

Grantaire notices the tense line of his shoulders and gently takes his hand. “Enjolras. It’ll be fine. They like you, I like you. So far, so good. Stop looking like somebody’s about to shoot you in the face.”

Enjolras has to laugh at that. “Stop making this a cliché plotline.”

“Well, Apollo, if the cap fits…”

Enjolras glares at him.

 

The inviting façade of the Café Musain shines brightly onto the damp streets, still running a little with summer rainstorms.  Everything is the same – the painted letters on the glass front; the soft orange-yellow light spilling onto the pavement; the red and gold colour scheme of the folded up striped awning; the bar in the far corner, visible through the glass with its menu and prices up behind it; the coffee machine; the old cabaret posters lining the walls. Enjolras’ shelter and home turf for most of the past eight years. It’s all the same, and yet it isn’t. Maybe it’s Grantaire holding his hand. Maybe Enjolras himself is different now.

His friends are congregated in their little corner. At the chime of the bell over the door they stop talking and turn as one to the two newcomers.

Enjolras has never before realised just how frighteningly in sync his friends can be.

Courfeyrac’s’ eyes pass between them, through their joined hands and up to the deer-in-headlights expression displayed on Enjolras’ face. Jehan, however, is the first to speak.

“So this is him?”

This seems to loosen something in Enjolras. “Yes. Yes, everyone, I’d like you to meet Grantaire. Grantaire this is…everyone.”

The Amis shift around to make space for the newcomers. Joly grabs an extra chair from a neighbouring, empty table. They settle Enjolras and Grantaire down in between Combeferre and Feuilly.

It seems everyone and their significant others are there. Musichetta sits between Joly and Bossuet, twisting the former’s hair between her long nails absently. Cosette is there too, nestled into Marius. Enjolras’ palms are sweaty, but he can’t let go of Grantaire’s hand.

\---

Grantaire is more nervous than he likes to let on.

Enjolras talk about his friends a lot. He’s known all of them since his university days and talks of them with more affection than he does his own family. Tonight is important, for more than one reason.

If he screws this up, that’s it; he’s lost the light (and love) of his life.

He can’t tell who’s palms are sweatier; his, or Enjolras’.

He scrutinises the faces before him. Combeferre and Eponine are the only ones Grantaire already knows; the latter from long standing acquaintance and the former through being his boyfriend’s flatmate. The others are strangers. He can feel them sizing him up as well, silent judgement radiating from all sides.

Their closeness, clearly born of long association, is almost oppressive. Grantaire suddenly has a flash of fear that he will end up not being enough for them, or for Enjolras. Reflexively he lets go of the blonde’s hand. 

Enjolras glances across at him, a question written in his eyes.

A young man with wavy dark hair and a cheeky personality written all over his face is the first to break the silence.

“May I be the first to offer my heartfelt congratulations?”

Grantaire does a double take. “Sorry?”

“I know for a fact that there was a bet going on that this man here would be the group’s perpetual spinster.”

“That was at uni.” Enjolras blushes a fetching shade of red.

The red-head clears his throat. “Er. Yeah. About that…”

“You mean it’s still going?”

“Well…maybe?”

Enjolras _thwacks_ his head on the table. “Why do I like any of you?”

“You would be lost without us, sweetie, and you know it,” says the first speaker bluntly.

Enjolras raises his head again and shakes it a little. “How about you introduce yourselves to my boyfriend before you start trading rude stories about my misspent youth?”

Grantaire feels a warmth take root in his chest at the word ‘boyfriend,’ said so casually to a group of strangers.

“Rude stories? Please tell me there were strippers,” he says hopefully.

Dark and wavy lets out a frankly evil cackle. “I like you already!”

“Can you picture his face though?”

“We don’t have to,” points out a pretty girl with long, slightly mousey brown hair.

Enjolras buries his face in his hands. “Guys…please?”

“Behave, Courf,” pipes up a wiry boy (man? He’s small but is clearly older than he looks). “I apologise for my significant other.” ‘Courf’ presses a kiss to the top of his cropped strawberry blonde hair. “I’m Jean Prouvaire, but most people call me Jehan.”

Grantaire reaches across the table to take the proffered hand. “The poet, right?”

Jehan beams. “That’s me. This oaf with no manners is Courfeyrac, who you have probably heard of.”

“You wound me, Jehan.”

“You know it’s true.”

“The infamous Courfeyrac? Your reputation precedes you.”

“I hope Enj only told you the best bits.”

“The best and juiciest cuts.”

“Excellent.” Courfeyrac stands and gives a flamboyant bow, causing his boyfriend to giggle and tug him down by the back of his trousers. He kisses the side of his head.

Enjolras shakes his head and introduces the rest.

“The one who looks like a boxer is Bahorel, the red-head it Feuilly, as you might have guessed.”

Bahorel offers him a fist bump. Feuilly gives him a casual salute with two fingers. Grantaire returns them easily.

“The threesome over there is Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.”

The mousey-haired girl grins at him. “I’m Joly. Don’t believe a word they’ve told you about me.”

“You’re the one who just qualified as a doctor, aren’t you?”

“I’m about to. You know, I could tell you everything you need to know about your possible…”

“Jol, the poor guy just got here, don’t give him his first terminal illness too early,” says the bald, black man to the left of the mocha-coloured girl in the middle. She flips him off, flushing. He simply smiles at her fondly. “I’m Bossuet,” he continues. “These are my girlfriends.”

“So, by process of elimination, you’re Musichetta.” Grantaire addresses the girl in the middle.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” she says, with a wide smile that reminded him somewhat of a lioness. He chalks up a mental note to never get on her wrong side.

“That’s Marius.” Enjolras indicates the man to Courfeyrac’s left. “He works for the same law firm as Courfeyrac.”

Marius is freckled with hair somewhere between red and brown. The arm not clasped protectively around his girlfriend waves at him across the table.

“And this is Cosette,” he says proudly, turning to gaze lovingly down at the girl at his side.

Grantaire doesn’t know whether to be sick or to offer them an award for ticking the box of every single cliché romance plot he’s ever written.

“Cosette Fauchlevant,” the girl replies in a confident voice. “I think you know my father, Jean Valjean?”

The brunette does a double take. Cosette is his publisher’s adopted daughter.

“Okay. Wow.”

Cosette smiles. “He thinks very highly of you, I hope you know.”

Grantaire flushes. Under the table, Enjolras’ hand finds his own again.

“Well…he’s a wonderful man. It’s a privilege writing for him.”

Cosette smiles at him. “I think you and I are going to get along very well.”

Grantaire internally sighs in relief.

“We were known in Uni as Les Amis de L’ABC. We’ve sort of kept that name,” says Joly.

“And it is our duty to inform you, that, if you break his heart, we will, as a unit, fuck you up,” says Jehan.

Grantaire looks at him. The fragile looking creature looks deadly serious.

“I’d believe him if I were you,” says Combeferre. It’s the first time he’s spoken. “He has a black belt in three martial arts.”

Grantaire thinks he might just have found his people.

“That’s not to say that doesn’t work both ways,” Eponine says. “If he hurts Grantaire, you know that I know people.”

“We do.” Bossuet shudders.

“Okay, have we got threatening him out of our systems yet?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire smiles to himself at the possessive note in Enjolras’ voice.

“Now,” announces Courfeyrac. “Embarrassing Enjolras.”

The blonde groans. “Fuck.”

\---

“I still can’t believe you - ”

“Shut up.”

“And the _pigtails,_ oh my God…”

“Taire, _tais-toi._ Please?”

Grantaire takes a second’s break from laughing to breath. “Blimey…okay, I’m calm, I’m good. I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t.”

“No, I’m really not. I need to get you drunk one day.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes to heaven.

“Your friends are awesome.”

“Yes, I had the feeling you and Courfeyrac would get on frighteningly well.”

Grantaire swings their joined hands between them. “Jehan’s amazing too. Actually they all are.”

“I’m glad.”

Grantaire looks at him archly. Under the streetlamps all his colour has been bleached out and half his face is in shadow. “Admit it. You were scared shitless up until they started threatening me.”

“I was not!”

“Were too.”

“How old are you, five?”

“Six. And you so were.”

“…fuck off.”

“What sort of language is that in front of a small child?”

Enjolras shoves him, but he’s laughing as well. “Alright, yes I was nervous. It matters to me, okay?”

“What does?”

“You getting on with my friends. They’re important to me…and so are you. I…I don’t know. I didn’t want to have to end up choosing between you.”

They stop beneath a streetlight. Grantaire turning to take Enjolras’ other hand in his.

“You’re intelligent, so I’m going to get straight to the point. You know I wouldn’t have made you choose, right?”

Enjolras doesn’t have to think long. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Exactly. Do you honestly think I could live with myself if I caused a rift to open between you and your little gang?”

“It’s our little gang now.”

Grantaire flushes. “Yes. I suppose it is. But seriously. I would have tried to get on with them anyway. I don’t have a lot of close friends and I think it’s brilliant that you do.”

Enjolras knows without asking that this is a story for another time. He just leans in and captures Grantaire’s mouth with his own.

“I’m still glad,” he says between kisses. “And so fucking relieved that they liked you.”

Grantaire laughs. “Yeah. Me too.”

They keep walking.

\---

Grantaire think there’s a special sort of happiness that comes with a new beginning. He feels it settle just under his breastbone, thrum through his hand where it joins with the beautiful blonde at his side.

Enjolras thinks that when all those romance books with cliché and unrealistic plots and titles and characters were written… those idiot writers might just have been the smartest people alive.

\---

“So, is our whole real life, rom-com romance shebang going to be the plot for your next book then?” Enjolras asks guilessly.

“Okay, that does it!”

Grantaire takes a playful swing at him. Enjolras ducks and darts away up their street, laughing.

(Of course, he’ll let Grantaire catch him in the end.

He always will).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are such dorks. 
> 
> So...that was that fic. Thank you to everyone who's commented, left kudos, stopped by for a read, and generally made this whole thing a pleasure to churn out. I love every single one of you. 
> 
> As usual, twilightshadow is the name, tumblr is the game, and so is writing, and fangirling. So long, catch ya next time xxx


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